So, About Your Will
You're going to die. Probably not soon. But the people you love will need to know what to do with your stuff, your accounts, and your terrible Spotify playlists. Here's how to sort it without making it weird.
Right. Let's talk about wills.
I know. Brilliant Saturday morning topic. But hear me out, because this one's quietly become a generational thing, and it's worth a few minutes of your time.
For decades, "writing a will" was something old people did, possibly with a fountain pen, possibly in a panelled office that smelled of furniture polish. It was where your great aunt's collection of figurines went to be redistributed.
That's changed. Quietly, and quite a lot. People in their twenties and thirties are writing wills now—and they look very different from the ones their parents wrote.
What's actually in them
Yes, the legal bits. Who gets what. Who's in charge. Who looks after the kids if there are kids.
But also: a favourite jumper, gifted to a friend. A playlist, for the funeral. The recipe for the curry only your nan and you know how to make. A short message to your mum. Login details for the photo library that's basically your entire 20s.
This is the thing most people miss. Your stuff isn't only in your bank account. A huge amount of what people will actually want to remember you by is in your phone. Or your Google Drive. Or that old laptop. None of which anyone can get into without you telling them how.
If you've ever tried to access a dead relative's iCloud, you know exactly what kind of hell I'm describing.
Why now
A few reasons, all of them legitimate.
Covid happened. It's a slightly grim observation but it's true: a lot of people who'd never seriously thought about their own mortality were suddenly thinking about it constantly. That doesn't go away.
Renting changes things. The traditional "you need a will when you buy a house" advice never really applied to a generation that mostly doesn't buy houses. But you can absolutely have a meaningful estate without owning property. Pension. Savings. Crypto. A side hustle. A chunky ISA. The car. Your stuff. Your actually-quite-valuable-now Pokémon cards. It adds up.
The internet got involved. Will-writing services have started behaving like normal companies. Slick websites. Honest pricing. Marketing that doesn't read like a Victorian funeral notice. "Netflix and will" is, objectively, a stupid slogan. It's also working, because nobody was ever going to be drawn in by "Estate Planning Solutions."
What happens if you don't have one
This is the bit people don't really know about, and it matters.
If you die without a will in England or Wales, the law decides what happens to your stuff. Not you. Not your family. Not your partner. The law, using a fixed formula written when "the family" looked very different from how it looks now.
A few things that surprise people:
- An unmarried partner gets nothing. Doesn't matter if you've been together fifteen years and own a flat together. Without a will, they're not your legal beneficiary.
- Stepchildren get nothing. Even if you raised them.
- Best friends, godchildren, charities you care about—nothing.
- Your stuff goes to blood relatives in a strict legal order. Even ones you haven't spoken to in years.
If any of that sounds wrong to you—and it should—the only way to fix it is a will.
The dirty little secret
Here's the bit that genuinely floors me.
Of the people who do go to the trouble of writing a will, around a third don't tell anyone where it is.
Read that again. They've done the hard part. They've sat down, made the decisions, signed the document, paid the solicitor. And then they've put it in a drawer somewhere and not mentioned it to a single human being.
A will that no one can find is, legally speaking, almost the same as no will at all. Estates routinely get divided under intestacy because the will couldn't be located in time.
So: tell someone. Tell two people. Tell your mum. Tell whoever you've named as your executor (and definitely tell them, because they've technically just got a job and they should probably know).
Right, how do I actually do it
You've got three real options, and they're priced very differently.
1. DIY. A printed kit, a pen, two witnesses. Cheap. Possible. Easy to mess up. If your situation is genuinely simple—single, no kids, modest assets, clear wishes—it can work. If your situation is more complicated than that, the savings vanish quickly when something goes wrong.
2. Online services. This is where most of the action is right now. Decent ones do a real job for £50–£100. The good ones get a solicitor to review what you've written. The bad ones don't. Read the small print.
3. A solicitor. £200–£500 for a basic will, more for anything complicated. Worth it if your life is genuinely complicated—blended family, business owner, significant assets, expecting big inheritances, anything cross-border.
Whichever route you go, the rules are the same. The will has to be in writing. You have to sign it. Two adult witnesses have to be there when you sign and have to sign it themselves. The witnesses can't be people who inherit (or married to anyone who inherits)—a surprisingly common way to invalidate the bit you most wanted to leave to someone.
And then: tell people where it is. Please.
A small thing about updating it
A will written when you were 25 may not suit your life at 35. New partner, new baby, new business, new house, new feelings about a sibling—all of them might mean the document needs a refresh.
The standard advice is: review it every 3–5 years, or after any major life event. The realistic advice is: at least put a reminder in your phone.
The personal stuff
One more thing, and this is the bit that actually matters.
Wills are mostly thought of as a financial document. They're not. They're a "this is what I want, and this is what I'd say if I could" document. The recipe. The letter. The voice note. The thing you've been meaning to say to your dad. The reason your friend should get the painting and not your sister.
These bits don't have to be legally binding. They just have to exist. The technical name is a "letter of wishes," and it sits alongside the will. It costs you nothing. It is, in many cases, the bit your family will read most.
If you only do one part of this whole exercise, do that part.
How LifeFolio™ can help
This is what we built LifeFolio™ for, basically. For £2.99 a month you get:
- One place for all of it. Accounts, policies, pensions, the photos, the playlists, the logins your family will need but won't be able to guess.
- A will that actually gets stored properly. Not in a drawer. Encrypted, accessible to the people you choose, available when it's needed.
- Letters, notes, voice memos. The personal stuff, kept somewhere that won't get lost when your phone gets factory-reset.
- An update reminder. Because nobody ever remembers on their own.
We also do proper, professionally reviewed wills for £60. Which is, for context, less than a decent night out.
OK fine, what now
Honestly? Make a cup of tea. Sit down for half an hour. Take the Estate Readiness Assessment and see where you actually stand.
It's not as bleak as it sounds. It's mostly a tidy-up job. And the version of you that's already done it will feel quietly smug about it for years.
This article is for informational purposes only and does not constitute legal advice. Will Aid is an annual campaign where participating solicitors will draft a basic will in return for a charity donation rather than their usual fee — worth knowing about if money's tight.
